The Penn's Grove record., 1887-11-26

SO deep he knows not where to fight
the foe, and the seconds seem eternities
as he waits. every nerve at strain.
Again the cry. 1t is nearer now.
Ralph waits no longer. His senses
are trained with the outdoor life he has
led, and with an unerring instinct he
measures the distance from the spo,
whence comes that awful call.
Wild though the spate may be, it hal
no power to check his daring. Into the
whitening foam he dashes.
The plunge makes him giddy and the
noise confuses; yet he manages to keeE
his footing though the course of the
current makes it dificult.
The clouds break a little, and there Is
a faint light behind them, and he sees
q human figure borne on the stream
above him and dashed against an out
juttiDg mass Of rock.
1t is but a second that the downsweeI
is stayed by the obstacle; yet it is sufl,
Gent for the young fellow to reach the
point and grasp in his strong arm the
stunned and helpless man.
Thus far he is successful, but not 80
quickly can the landing be effected.
Hampered as he Is by the unconscious
weight he holds, the lad has little
power to struggle against the stream,
and is borne on and on, though he
clutches yaInly with the one nand that
is free at every branch of tree, or twig,
or jutting stone that overhangs the
banks.
He grows very weary and faint, yet
bravely will not yield.
Fortunately for him, the man be
holds is not conscious enough to impede
him by struggling. and as yet he is able
to keep bis own head and that of his
helpless burden above water.
A terrible fear Is on him, for he
knows they are nearing the lake, and
ono within it he will be out OF his
depth and effort will be useless, for the
inland lad has never learnt to swim.
The terror gives him strength and
nerves him for n more struggle as lie
sees q fallen tree athwart the stream.
With a strain that tries every we'll
knit muscle, he gains the bank, and
sinks exhausted on the soaking sward,
his comrade in his arms.
A brief moment OF cessation from
struggle reyives him, and, bending over
the man he has tried to save, he feels
his heart.
Thank heaven, it still beats. Yet
how feebly. and out there on the bare
hill side what chance has he to revive
its exhausted powersP
As he SO bends the night grows
clearer and a star or two shine forth.
BY their light he can see the white set
face of the man for whom he has risked
his very life.
Now he knows 1T
1t is that of INT who has treated him
cruelly--one who had vowed never so
long rs life should last to look on him
save as an enemy and a traitor-that
of old farmer Wilkinson, the father of
his darling.
Good God, il the man should die
with these bitter words unsaidl
Ralph moves the PROSTATE figure into
the shelter of a neighboring fence,
raises the gray head reverently and
chafes the cold, thin hands.
1t is all he can do, but he Is painfully
conscious how little 1t is, and the tears
fill his kindly honest eyes as he thinks
Of the lonely girl watching for the stern
old man wohm he knows she loves.
By and by the closed eyes open and
look into Ralph's face, and the farmer
tries to speak.
"Where is II and where's Marjory.
| seed her plain as the day we were
wed, and she's been gone this sixteen
years.
"You tainted, that is ah," answers
the lad, gently. NOW you are better
III run and fetch help to carry you
home. 1ll not be long. 1 promise
But old Aaron had sunk back into
semi-consciousness, and for a while
fails to rouse him.
Apparently, however, his voice
reaches the old mans ears and sounds
familiar, for by and by brokenIy he
begins again to speak, so low that only
by STOPPING close can the anxious lis
tener hear his words and catch their
meaning.
FAY, ay. it's Ralph--him as the lassie
said she loved-and III never see her
bonny face again, and We parted with
never a word o. kindness. Tell her l
her. and-ye-and Oh, lad,
make her happy if ye can"
Then the old mans head falls back
IN the strong young arm that raises it,
and all is still.
Too well does Ralph know the mean.
Lng of that terrible silence.
Death has won another victory.
Yet another task lies before the
voung and worsted .combatant, and
with white and trembling lips and ach-
pg heart he sets ont to bear to her he
the knowledge OF her loss.
Youth grieves and youth despairs,
but youth loves; and where love fingers
ife's greatest sorrows can be borne, |
md the deepest, sorest wounds will
zeal.
Winter past, and Maggie learnt again
Nd father lay IN the churchyard on the
ill.
She still stayed at the lonely farm, |
with only a hind to help her in its man
cement; but the house was to have a
lew master ere the summer came again.
1t was early springtime now, and the
,rass was growing green, and the tiny
was sweet with prImroses and
yallnowers, while about the porch
.rept the sweet scented samine and
budding brier.
There Maggie loitered with her lover
n the golden twilight, and a snow
white dove few circling round their
reads, or perched amid the opening
caves in the porch.
The strange fair visitant of that
night still fingered, and Maggie
lad grown to love the creature with a
are deep tenderness.
Perhaps the loneliness made her
more imaginative, more dreamy, for a
'weet poetic fancy had taken possession
" the girls fancy.
The bird had flown to her breast at
he very hour her fathers soul had
AIKEN flight, and to her loving, half
emorseful heart it seemed as though
lis spirit had come in this gentle guise
o tell her of his forgiveness and his
owe.
The long rays of the setting sun
tainted across the valley and touched
With light here and there the distant
nils, and glinted upon the churchyard